Do You Hear What I Hear?
by Tres Mechante
Summary: In which Jim feels lost, Blair does as he’s told and Simon is pretty sure he does not want to know what’s going on. Simon’s POV.


**Title:** Do You Hear What I Hear

**Author:** Très Méchante

**Characters/Pairing:** Jim Ellison, Blair Sandburg (suggested J/B), Simon Banks

**Summary:** In which Jim feels lost, Blair does as he's told and Simon is pretty sure he does _not_ want to know what's going on. Simon's POV.

**Rating:** Teen

**Spoilers:** Nothing specific. Set prior to the SenToo stuff.

**Word Count:** approx. 1725 words

**Warning:** Naughty words; mild sexual innuendo

**Disclaimer:** Well, the story is mine, but the characters, most assuredly, are not. Fudge.

**Archive:** Only with permission.

**Inspired by title:** "Do You Hear What I Hear" by Pretty Much Everyone at Some Point

* * *

Damn, Sandburg just can't catch a break these days. The one time he actually does what he's told and he winds up in the hospital - again.

I'm in my usual chair outside the ER treatment area - and there is just something very wrong about that, a usual chair in a hospital - anyway, I'm waiting for word on how the kid is doing. I swear, this could only happen to him. Well, him and his partner.

Speaking of trouble-prone detectives, I wonder where Ellison has gotten off to. It's not like him to wander off when Sandburg is hurt. I know the kid teases him about that Blessed Protector crap, but when it comes to that kid, Ellison is worse than a whole barnyard of brood hens with only one chick.

I have to stifle a laugh at that thought. Truth is, part of me keeps expecting Ellison to ask me to be a personal reference in adoption proceedings. I can just picture it: Papa Ellison. I wonder if he'd give in to the temptation to spank the kid when he misbehaved – and I'll stop that thought right there. That is one visual I really don't need.

A sudden crash brings me to my feet and I start down the hallway toward the noise just as a struggling detective his being forcibly escorted out of the treatment area by a petite nurse. Ellison is bent almost in half as the young woman pulls on his ear. Clearly, she is not intimidated by the larger man's temper or his threats of arresting her for assaulting a police officer.

Oh, this is a story worthy of poker night, and I'll live off the telling of this tale for months, maybe even years to come – unless, of course, Ellison makes it worth my while to keep quiet. Maybe.

"Thank you, Nurse. I'll make sure he behaves." The nurse returns my smile and releases my detective. She glares at him once more for good measure and quickly returns to the treatment area.

I have to keep a firm grip on Ellison's arm to keep him from trying to follow her.

"But, Blair--"

"Is in good hands," I tell him. "You heard the doctor earlier; the kid's injuries look worse than they are."

"I know, it's just that…God, Simon, this is all my fault."

Okay, Blessed Protector is one thing, but this is just ridiculous. "Oh? So you knew a drunk driver was going to crash into our crime scene and that's why you had Sandburg stay right where that idiot was going to crash. Uh-huh. Yeah, you're right. This was definitely your fault."

Ellison's death glare has no effect on me and I just glare right back. He drops into a chair and scrubs bloodstained hands over his face and through his hair.

All I can do is sit with him, nudging him from time to time to keep him from zoning out. The kid is the one who always drags him out of these funks, but right now, the kid is the reason for it.

This has been one hell of a long day. Sandburg is finally settled into a room for the night – despite a volley of pleas, threats and half-assed attempts at logical reasoning. The kid, however, just shrugged, told Jim to go home – 'you look like crap, Big Guy' – and promptly fell asleep. No surprise there. Almost dying can take a lot out of a man.

I'm halfway to the car, enjoying the night air and my first cigar in too many hours, when I realize Jim is missing. Oh hell, not again. When, I turn back, however, Jim is standing just outside the door with arms folded in some kind of self-hug. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted as though he's listening to something. He probably is. I don't really want the details, but I'd bet a month's pay he's listening to something in or near Sandburg's room.

That's just…well, creepy.

"Let's go, Detective. I'd like to get some sleep before my breakfast meeting with the mayor." I kept my voice quiet, but he still flinched when I started talking. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

He just gives me a vague look, like he isn't really connecting. "Thanks, Simon, but I'm good. I'll drive myself; you don't have to go out of your way."

I was right.

"Jim, your truck isn't here, remember? You came in the ambulance with Sandburg."

Poor shmuck. He's totally out of it. I walk back and take his arm to lead him back to my car. Mercifully, he seems to get himself together as he gets settled. Of course, this doesn't last long – that would have been too easy. We're not even two blocks from the hospital before he starts getting twitchy again, muttering under his breath.

Tough times call for tough measures, as my grandmother liked to say. Hoping I'm not making a mistake, I change directions. This could go one of two ways, but I'm hoping it'll give him something other than the kid to think about.

Jim's out of the truck before he realizes we're not at the loft. I can't help grinning at his fish impersonation, mouth opening and closing. Sandburg's not the only guppy in that twosome.

"Uh, Simon…?"

"Impound yard. I thought you might like to grab your personal effects from the truck." Hey, I can do innocent when I want to.

The attendant is happy to accommodate us and points us in the direction of Jim's truck. I hang back a bit as Jim gets a good look at the wreck.

The drunk that rammed Jim's truck was driving a stolen garbage truck. The result is not pretty. Damn, Sandburg was lucky he wasn't killed.

"Oh, sweetheart…" Jim murmurs. He walks up to the wreck and begins running his hands over the body. "Baby, I'm so, so sorry."

Leave it to him to murmur sweet nothings to an inanimate object. I feel almost embarrassed as he continues murmuring apologies mixed with words like 'sweetheart' and 'darling' and 'baby'. Geez, he's practically declaring his undying love to a truck. He definitely needs to get out more.

I'm about to go back to the car and give them some privacy, when something catches my attention.

"So sorry you got hurt, sweetheart. I should have taken better care of you. I'm sorry, baby, so sorry."

It's…I don't know how to describe it, but there's something in Jim's voice that stops me cold. I hope he's talking about the – of course, he is. Everyone knows how attached he is to that damn truck.

"Ellison! Is there anything you need from it? It's been one hell of a day and I want to get home before daylight."

That snaps him out of whatever moment he's having. He grabs a few things from inside the truck and we're off. I drop him at the loft and tell him I'll pick him up in the morning, when he'll go to the station for a few hours before dropping by the hospital. He doesn't like it, but I am the boss.

The drive from the hospital was an adventure. Ellison was crammed in the backseat, while Sandburg was comfortably settled in the front passenger seat in deference to his injuries. Ellison bitched about the space, Sandburg bitched about my driving, and I bitched – silently, since I couldn't get a word in edgewise – about the lack of aspirin.

Once we finally manage to get Sandburg up to the loft – what the hell is the point of having an elevator if it never works? – I just stood back and watched the show.

They're bickering like always, and it's kind of funny to listen to, but that's when things got a little strange; I mean, beyond the usual levels of strange when dealing with those two.

Sandburg starts waxing poetic about herbal remedies, and Ellison mocks him – while bringing him a cup of some weird tea thing. Ellison sets a bowl of soup in front of the kid, and Sandburg whines about not being hungry – while eating every spoonful. Sandburg lounges on the couch in a patch of sunshine; Ellison reprimands him for putting his feet on the furniture – while placing a pillow to support the injured ankle.

"You do realize that I'm not here as your personal servant, right Chief?"

"But, Jim, you do it so well." And damn if the kid doesn't bat his eyelashes.

Ellison glares at him, but it doesn't seem to have any effect. "Isn't your week almost up?"

"Ages ago, man. Ages ago." Sandburg looks up at Ellison from beneath those fluttering eyelashes. "Should I start packing?"

"I'll give you a hand," he says and heads to the kid's room.

The hell? But I've barely started forming the thought that he'd really kick the kid out when Ellison comes back with a quilt and tucks him in. "You are such a pain in the ass," he said as he straightened back up.

And that's when it hits me. There are two conversations going on. One for the general public and one that's more private. If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to thing that...that…

"Gentlemen. I have to get going."

They protest, assuring me I'm welcome to stay for a movie or something, but I really need to get out of there. If I'm imagining things, I don't want to accidentally say something embarrassing; but if I'm not imagining things, then I really don't want to know. There are some things a captain does not need to know about his people's private lives. Juggling the sentinel thing is bad enough, but if there's something more going on – I cut that thought off right there.

Wishing them a good night, I head out. On the other side of the door, I stop for a moment listening to the sounds inside. They are arguing – loudly – about which movie to watch and I can't help but smile. Whatever is going on, I'll just add it to pile labeled 'a sentinel thing' and ignore it. After all, they get the job done, which makes me look good. Hell, if I can figure out how to keep the kid around, those two could help me make police commissioner one day.

_**-end-**_


End file.
